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Awakening
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Legebriewyn came to awareness suddenly, the vision already fading from his mind. Even as he tried to recall the details, they slipped away from him like leaves vanishing into the undergrowth. As he felt his body awaken, he realized he was lying face-down in the dirt, his tunic and breeches smudged with the loamy soil of the Feywood. Fortunately there was no one to see as he stood, brushing himself off, for it would have been a curious sight indeed to see one of the elves stagger up as though he were a human fresh from sleep.
As he finished patting himself down, a strange sensation began to emanate from his right hand- an odd warmth that spread down his arm to the shoulder. His breath caught as the arm began to glow, green as fresh grass. Horrified, he tries to shake himself free of whatever curse is upon him, and a bolt of green energy fires from his fingertips, arcing through the trees until it crashes into one of the ancient oaks of his home, leaving a splintered divot the size of a fist several inches deep.
Ⱥղժ ʂօ օմɾ քąçէ ìʂ ʍąժҽ
The voice speaks to him, but he knows it not. Or he thinks he does not, until his unconscious mind tells him that it is the voice of his visions. The voice he has been hearing for weeks now, from somewhere under the woods. A voice that has only recently awakened again. He knows the voice, and knows what it desires- a return of the woods to their former strength, the driving out of the corruption, the darkness. He knows it is in pain.
Registered Member #24041
Joined: 4:19:01 am GMT 01/24/17
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Some time later:
The trees are crying out, and his people cannot save them all. Thrice now he has seen the Witch of the North, and thrice they have been forced to flee, taking what they can and escaping with little more than their lives.
A young elf stands in the antechamber of the Council of the Feywood. He explains to the door guardian what he has seen- spirits of old, helping ensure the barrier around the central stronghold remains pure and potent. And the witch, killing one of those spirits, blackening the Moors to the north in order to invite her broods to help her in her dark ritual. Eleshandrea fights bravely, but they are outmatched, and the two of them cut the spirit free, distracting the witch, only to be forced to flee and feel her cutting it down with a final blast of magic.
The guardian's face is impassive. No doubt he has seen many crises, lived through a hundred different complications, wars, skirmishes, and more. And perhaps, Legebriewyn, reflects, he is right to take this latest threat so stoically- for the Feywood has always stood, though dark days may have come. The trees here are among the oldest on the isle, and there is power in them yet.
But the trees are crying out, and his people cannot save them all, and he worries that if they delay, they may lose everything they hold close. The voice in his head warns him of the price of failure. Because it knows what will happen if the elves are driven out. It knows what else lurks beneath the canopies of the woods, hidden and waiting.
Registered Member #24041
Joined: 4:19:01 am GMT 01/24/17
Posts: 2147
Some time later, deep in the Feywood Forest
The voice is always the loudest away from others, as though it is shy, misliking the company of those it is not a part of.
Or perhaps that's just my imagination, Legebriewyn thinks to himself, as he leans his head against the ancient trunk of one of the old-growth trees in the Feywood, listening to its soft voice speak of wind and sun and rain. Unlike the gentle voice of the trees, the one in his head is insistent. It demands to be listened to, and, if he is honest with himself, Legebriewyn wants to listen to it. Already it has helped him through several tight scrapes- against the witch of the north, against the gnolls, against darkfey lurkers and human warriors, and each time it has offered advice, or given him a power he could not dared to have wielded alone. If he sometimes has doubts about the pact he made, Legebriewyn cannot help but look about the forest, at the work he has done, and be satisfied, at least in part. He has helped stem the tide of darkness encroaching on the land, even if only temporarily, and while the loss of a guardian is still a blow that he feels deeply, he is confident that he can reach the others before the witch does, especially with the council made aware of the situation.
And so once again he listens to the voice which calls his name in the space between nature and the mind. He listens to it tell him of the infinite cycle of the natural world, of the ways in which that cycle's power can be borrowed, or bent, to his own purposes. He listens, first out of curiosity, then out of eagerness, for in the words the voice whispers in his mind he begins to see the outlines of a plan- one that will not just stem the tide of darkness, but perhaps, with time, even reverse it altogether...
Registered Member #24041
Joined: 4:19:01 am GMT 01/24/17
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Ͳհҽ հìղ ìʂ ժąղցҽɾօմʂ
Yes, but she has proven loyal.
చհҽɾҽ ìʂ ʂհҽ էհҽղ?
That is a good question- one I cannot answer.
The elf looks down from atop a parapet overlooking Dragon's Watch.
Ӌօմ ʂհօմӀժ ղօէ ҍҽ հҽɾҽ.
Perhaps. But she told me to meet her here- I just don't know where-
"Legebriewyn!"
A whisper cuts through the late afternoon stillness.
"Are you there?"
The elf looks down, nonplussed- the voice is hers, but the figure is-
"Why are you disguised as a gnoll, Eleshandrea?"
"There's no time! Quick, we have to go, before the witch finds us!"
A moment later, he has stepped through the air, to be at her side on the dirt path of the Watch. He nods, and the gnoll lopes off...
___
They have passed through shadow and reflection, and stand in a mirrored hall. A girl, dressed all in white, with a silver chain around her ankle. Every sound magnified a thousandfold. His ears hurt. He looks to his hand, withered and grey. The fey magic comes still, but something prevents it from healing. He looks up at the girl- she looks as exhausted as he feels.
___
He carries the hin woman in his arms. He and the girl have reached the Feywood weald- he brings them through the barriers. The green light has long-since faded from his eyes, and his steps are slow, hesitant.
"If you accept our protection, you must swear to fight alongside us if, when, she comes. My people are dying. We cannot hold back the tide forever. If she comes again, we will fight to kill. If you accept our protection, you must do so as well."
The girl looks out over the gentle streams of the elven court, past the patrols on heightened alert, the massive trees which make up the heart of the woods. She nods, and they go to speak to the Feywood council...
Registered Member #24041
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The woods are alive with whispers of late. Some whisper of the strange happenings in the north, the fey that have been on the move, seen in half-glances and heard in the dark parts of the night, cackling and screeching as they make their way to some destination known only to them. Most are simply thankful they have chosen to leave the woods alone this time, focusing their hatred and malice elsewhere.
That much is true. Though the barriers held, for now, whispers circulate about their strength, about the guardians who keep them, about the fact that the witch and others were targeting them in the places where they were weakest, to try to remove the barriers once and for all.
And then there were the whispers about Legebriewyn himself. How he often wandered alone, muttering to himself, or was seen with a halfling girl hardly thirty summers old. Strange, they whispered, or perhaps going mad.
Ӌօմ ąɾҽ ղօէ ցօìղց ʍąժ.
Says the voice in my head, he whispers, causing the patrol he is passing to look at him askance. He nods to them, hurrying past into the stronghold. The voice in his head laughs softly.
It is not always there, the voice, but often enough to make his mind not the private place he once thought it to be. He has begun to guard his thoughts, as the voice has learned to sift through them, picking out details and images to interrogate him about- his family, his traveling companions, his people. The questions are harmless enough, but still, there are things he does not wish to share.
But the reward, the payment, perhaps... has proven quite useful. He flexes his right palm, where a green light glows, making the grey skin underneath seem unnaturally alive, sickly even. The grey has not spread further than his fingers, thus far at least.
į ąʍ ցӀąժ վօմ ƒìղժ օմɾ ҍąɾցąìղ մʂҽƒմӀ.
For just a moment, the green light in his hand flickers. He frowns down at it, only to see it wink out completely. To his horror, the grey flesh begins to creep upward, past his palm, his wrist, into his arm. He hurries around the side of one of the stone buildings, out of sight of the main body of his people, clutching at his hand, which burns in pain, and he falls to his knees, trying not to cry out in the middle of the stronghold, surrounded by elves who already see him as unusual. He bites down hard on his lip, tasting blood, reaching for the magic- only to find it blocked off, as though a wall separated him from it. The grey miasma has reached his shoulder now, creeping ever forward, as he lets out a silent scream, his left hand clutching the dirt in agony.
And then the magic floods into him again. His right palm lights up like a flare, causing shouts of alarm and the sound of feet moving toward him rapidly. The greyness fades from his skin, pushed back by the magic until it is only in his fingers once more, and he stands, quickly brushing himself off as the first of the Feywood guards round the corner, demanding an explanation.
As he hastily explains that he was testing a new spell for light to a growing crowd of dubious onlookers, the voice wends its way into his mind once more, purring like a cat toying with a particularly interesting mouse.
Registered Member #24041
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ටղӀվ օղҽ ցմąɾժìąղ ɾҽʍąìղʂ.
The elf tilts his head as the voice speaks to him again- and perhaps it is only his imagination, but he senses the same anxiety he feels, the same fear, coming from the voice- a seed of doubt that had never manifested before. The elf look s up from the stream at the shimmering fey barriers, weakened now but still standing. If the final guardian were to be destroyed, however...
The witch had found them once again, as they escorted a seed to the stronghold- a seed that may prove to be the salvation of the Feywood, though at the cost of changing them.
The elf nods to himself- so long as the Feywood remains intact, even if it is wounded, the elves can regrow, replant, replace what is lost- perhaps it will not be the same as before, but there is nothing they can do about that. They must preserve what they can, protect the ancient groves that have stood since before men or elves or fey inhabited this island.
He looks back toward the center of the stronghold- to where he had planted the seed of the tree of change. The warnings they had received played again in his mind- regrets, loss, the dying of the old ways- all these things are possible, with such change.
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In the hours after the witch's fall, and the resurrection of the tribe of the Gerdamesh- in the quiet of the first night after the storm, when the weald had been reborn anew, in the small quiet moments between the ending of one cycle and the starting of another, Legebriewyn finds himself sitting on a small trunk on the southern border of the stronghold. Nearby, a stream ripples, free for the first time in a long while of the corruption of the dark void that the witch of the north had summoned over them all. He thinks back to the choice that had been made- to bring back the humans of the past, leaving the elves who had fought and died against the witch to remain in the black night of death. He sees before him the faces of those who had condemned his people, his friends, to remain dead. A demon, a human, a hin- and worst of all, a pair of elves.
Only if they do not kill us themselves, the elf thinks to the voice, which speaks to him now more often than ever before. It exulted in the death of the witch, and purrs with satisfaction as they look around the transformed woods- the trees growing taller and stronger than ever, the land reshaped for a new age.
If they rebel against us, then? If they, knowing how we destroyed them once, would strike first, and burn the woods so that we do not have another chance?
The elf shivers, but not due to any cold wind- no, he shivers because the at the thought of the woods burning, the voice gave off such a feeling of utter revulsion, of disgust and terror and adamant refusal, that it shook his whole form. He is not surprised, when it speaks again, to hear an edge to the disembodied voice:
The voice fades, leaving Legebriewyn to his thoughts. He does not feel as though he could destroy anything at the moment- his body hurts in a dozen places- bruises from where he was blasted backwards by the witch's magic, or cuts from the knives of her shadowy cur. He closes his eyes for a long moment, which becomes two, then three. And then he stands- because his patron is right. These humans, whether or not he wished them here, are here now, and they must be made to understand what it is they have been brought back for. He takes a deep breath, and walks south, into the weald.
Registered Member #24041
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Somewhere north of Feywood
Legebriewyn stands from the small campfire he had made, scraping dark soil over the last of the embers, then pouring the remnants of the small pot over the mound to ensure that no stray spark would find its way into the undergrowth. He looks around cautiously before leaving the secluded glade he had found the night prior. The bodies of the gnolls lay some distance off, untroubled thus far- though their brethren would no doubt find them soon- the creatures already smelled strongly, and death would not improve the odor.
His conversation with the old shaman of the Gerdameshian tribe had left him with more questions than answers. The man was old by human standards, but because of his strange life- and having been dead for so long- he had answers that even the oldest elves could only guess at. If he was to be believed, he had witnessed the Titan when she yet walked the lands, had seen Nimmeril of old.
ɧɛ ῳơųƖɖ ʂąყ ɬɧąɬ ɬɧơųɠɧ, ῳơųƖɖŋ'ɬ ɧɛ?
The elf frowns as the voice emerges again, sounding almost sleepy, as though waking from a nap. In his battles against the gnolls, it had been silent, and for a time he had his mind to himself.
You don't think I should learn all that I can from him?
The green light fades from the elf's eyes, and he sighs, flexing his withered hand. A mote of light appears in it, and he lashes out at the dead gnolls, sending corpses flying into the undergrowth. He grimaces, then sets out north again, to where he had found another trail of theirs, leading to yet another encampment. He pushed thoughts of the voice, and the old shaman, and the disapproval of his people aside, focusing on keeping alert, on not stumbling into an ambush. The voice fades again as he goes about the business of ensuring the woods are protected from any counterattack from the savage gnolls.
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Legebriewyn stands from the semicircle that has formed around the shaman Aldur, quietly placing his bowl among the rest to be washed. The story the man told was one of a time long past, when Titans and fey roamed the lands openly, and the men and women of the Gerdamesh lived among them- though to hear Aldur tell it, it was not so much amongst them as beneath them, both literally and metaphorically. Looking around, Legebriewyn could see that the Gerdameshians were a proud race- everything from their posture to their homes, carefully carved of stone with scenes of great hunts and wondrous magic decorating the walls- spoke to this pride. But even so, they were a fledgeling tribe at the edge of the world when the Titan Leima found them, and Legebriewyn suspected that they could match his own people story for story in tales of dealing with capricious fey.
Ϛҽҽ? Ͳհҽվ ąɾҽ ղօէ ʂօ ժ샃ҽɾҽղէ.
The voice takes him by surprise, and the elf stumbles a fraction, quickly catching himself but not before Aldur's gaze snaps to him, the old shaman giving him a curious look. Legebriewyn keeps his face studiously blank, giving the shaman a slow nod before saying a quiet farewell and slipping out of the cavern. Outside, the chill wind of the taiga sharpens his senses, and he sees a patrol of hunters in the distance, moving through the fog like wraiths as they return to the small village with their latest kills. The elf takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves. The old man saw too much, and what he didn't see Legebriewyn could tell he was guessing at.
βҽ çąɾҽƒմӀ. Ƕҽ ʍąվ էҽӀӀ օէհҽɾʂ.
I am trying, the elf thinks to himself furiously, his withered hand forming a fist at his side. You are not helping.
The elf steps into the wind before the returning hunters notice him standing there, and is away from the moor and back to the stronghold of his people by the time the roast has been carved and the meal served. There, he paces the boughs of the trees, muttering to himself as the voice mutters back.
Registered Member #24041
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A dark cloud had gathered over the Feywood, distant thunder promising the rain that even then Legebriewyn could smell on the wind. He had climbed up one fo the taller trees in the vicinity, and stood upon a bough some sixty or seventy feet up, watching the storm roll in.
ɬɧɛ ɧųɱąŋʂ ıŋ ɬɧɛ ʂơųɬɧ ცųཞŋ ɬɧɛıཞ ɬཞɛɛʂ ŋơῳ.
That news had come only days before, a scout who had ventured as far south as the Grauer reported a great deal of smoke coming from the human city of Steinkreis, and a great number of trees being felled to fuel the flames. It was not yet clear what the humans were up to, or if perhaps they were just burning to see things lit aflame, but the elves of the Feywood grew somber at the news, and more than one seemed to glance north and west, to where the peoples of the Gerdamesh had settled, wondering what they made of it too.
The whisper in his mind curls around him like a breeze, and Legebriewyn wishes it did not so accurately mirror his own thoughts. For if the humans had decided that it was their time, who could stop them? The Feywood, for all its pride, was still reeling from the recent attacks, and they had their own bevy of humans to worry about as well- humans who may or may not seek revenge after all these years.
Wιʅʅ ყσυ ʂƚσρ ƚԋҽɱ?
The question echoes in his skull until it becomes a chorus, spoken in the voices of every elf he has ever met- his mother and father, the huntmaster, the friends whose faces he sees in the dark hours of the night, frozen forever by the witch's attacks. He hears Lady Syrissa, the Suzerain, the Loremaster. He hears the voice, whispering to him in a thousand voices, ten thousand- the voices of his people, all asking him the same question, as the storm breaks around him and the rain lashes down.
[ The Island of Thain ]
The Soul of the Forest
